Where the Body Dies, the Soul Lives
by MakorraLove97
Summary: He had his eyes shut when he heard approaching footsteps that were advancing toward him. He didn't understand it, but somehow he knew who would be standing in front of him with a small, shiny blade in his hand. Somehow he knew it wouldn't be his savior, but rather his reaper. / Jon Snow's final thoughts in Season Five's Finale, Mother's Mercy. / Slightly AU.


**Hello! I hope you guys all enjoyed this short one-shot. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the outcome of this fanfic, but for the most part I think it came out decent and I hope you guys think so too. :) This is slightly different from the show and my take on what Jon's final thoughts would be. I still can't get over what happened to him... now I could only hope he's not truly dead and he'll somehow come back.**

 **Please leave a comment letting me know your thoughts, I'd greatly appreciate any and all feedback from you guys! It'd mean a great deal to me to know your thoughts/opinions/etc. Thanks! :)**

 **I own NOTHING; I do not own Game of Thrones.**

 **Thanks for reading!**

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" _Where the Body Dies, the Soul Lives_ "

 **. . .**

Arya.

Sansa.

Bran.

Rickon.

Robb.

Catelyn.

Ned.

Ghost.

Ygritte.

Sam.

Traitor.

The second his eyes landed on the sign he knew. _He knew_. His eyelids slid close for a brief moment, not mentally ready to face the God of Death. Not ready to face the overbearing idea of betrayal from his fellow brothers. He drew in a tired, deep breath and forced his eyes to open before willing his body to turn around and face what was, in a painful way, to be expected.

He was surprised and utterly confused. He knew his decision would have some sort of consequences, but never did he believe _this_ would be it. _He_ was the traitor? After all he has done, he was marked as a traitor? After fighting almost to the death of every battle, turning down the chance of officially becoming a Stark, turning down the chance of seeking vengeance against the ones that wronged he and his family, after leading the Watch to the best of his ability, and after he faced down and _killed_ a White Walker - his own brothers were going to be the ones that stabbed him in the back?

His own brothers were the ones to put a knife in him and claim his life?

He spun around slowly, his mind still processing the wooden sign that had _traitor_ written across it. He parted his chapped lips to say something - _anything_ \- but he didn't have the time nor chance to speak a word as a sharp blade ripped through his flesh. His hands shot out to grab at the weapon that was plunged into his gut, but Alliser Thorne kept his strong grip. The blade shifted and twisted painfully, but remained embedded in his side.

Jon Snow groaned in pain as he fought to stay on his feet, not wanting to go down without a fight. _What fight?_ His eyes flickered to the rest of the men standing there, watching, as they held their blades with one hand and their torches in the other. He was out numbered. There _was_ no fight.

"For the watch." Alliser ghostly whispered, his eyes locked with Jon's. He twisted the sharp blade that has killed so many of his _enemies_ one last time and almost smiled when Jon's bemused and astonished face crumpled in pain. He ripped it out of him in one quick movement and before he allowed Jon to fall forward, the next man stepped forward, blade in hand and smirk smeared across his face.

"For the watch." He breathed into Jon's ear, his knife violently pushed into his skin, making another fatal hole in his body.

"For the watch." Another barked.

"For the watch." Another man, another knife.

"For the watch." Another friend, another lier.

"For the watch." Another brother, another betrayer.

 _For the watch_.

Jon tried to push them away, tried to make sense of what was happening. He blinked his eyes rapidly as black dots swirled before him, blurring his vision. His mind was racing; his head pounded with pulsing pain as his brain throbbed and cried against his skull. Nothing that was happening was making sense and it was all happening so _fast_.

He couldn't beg for them to stop, couldn't beg to the gods to make the pain go away, couldn't question _why_ they were doing what they were doing. All he could do is stand there, with his mouth slightly agape, as his final thoughts ran wild.

 _His final thoughts_.

He knew saving the Wildings would come with issues with the Crows. He knew they'd have words to say to him or they'd feel a certain way towards him. He knew they'd probably be angry at him or disappointed, or maybe even feel like he had betrayed them. He expected the dirty looks, he expected the impertinent comments, he expected a punch in the face or a kick to the gut… but this?

He never thought of himself as being the _very_ best. He never viewed himself as perfect. He was a bastard, after all and that was the _least_ of it, really. He never thought of himself as better than the rest and he surely never gave himself the credit he rightfully earned. However, deep down, although he had faith in the Crows, he knew _he_ was the best chance against the White Walkers.

Jon made eye contact with the Night's King, the leader of the White Walkers. He came face to face with it. He saw the coldness that swam in its crystal blue eyes and he saw the death that lingered around it. The White Walkers weren't going to stop and so far only Jon and Sam knew how to kill one, let alone _actually_ killed one.

He knew the fight with the White Walkers wouldn't be easy, but he was _ready_ for it. He was ready to lie down his life in order to save Westeros against the real threat that was bound to come - _Hell_ , that was already _here_.

What he wasn't ready for was to be killed by his own people. His own _brothers_.

"For the watch." Another blade forced its way into Jon's gut and he wanted to vomit. He grunted and the second the sharp blade slid perfectly out of his body, he fell weakly to his knees. He couldn't hold himself up any longer, the pain tearing at his entire body that felt as if his flesh was set on fire.

When a few agonizing seconds passed and no other blade seemed to come, he partially figured he was dead already. He almost let out a shaky breath of relief. He almost laughed out of insanity, grateful for the stabbing to _stop_ … oh how _wrong_ he was.

He had his eyes shut when he heard approaching footsteps that were advancing toward him. He didn't understand it, but somehow he knew who would be standing in front of him with a small, shiny blade in his hand. Somehow he knew it wouldn't be his savior, but rather his reaper.

"Olly," Jon breathed out in a raspy voice. He looked up at the small child with pleading eyes, begging him to end this all - end this _madness_ and don't follow through. Don't become like the rest of the criminals that belonged to the Watch.

Olly was angry and he had every right to be. He had every bloody right to hate Jon, but to shove a blade through his flesh? That's what he wanted, after everything Jon has done for him? He had watched over and cared for the child and in return this was the outcome?

"Please," Jon muttered and weakly shook his head, "please, Olly…" His voice trailed off, though he still prayed he understood what he meant to say. Olly was letting vengeance cloud his judgement and once that satisfaction and thirst of revenge was quenched, he'd be suffocated in regret and sorrow.

Olly stared into the Lord Commander's dulling eyes and his hand shook at his side. His chest rose and fell quickly, his heart violently beating against his chest, and he felt a thick lump form in his throat. He swallowed hard several times, his fingers that were wrapped around the blade's handle began twitching.

Jon could have sworn he saw a flash of hesitation. However, as brief as it was and quick as it came, it disappeared and was replaced with vexation. Wrath. _Hatred_.

"For the watch." Olly rasped out in a small whisper. Jon went to shake his head, went to say something or stop him, but it was to no avail. The blade plunged through his chest, cutting through him with surprising ease. His lips parted and he meant to scream, but only a painful gasp managed to make it passed his throat and spill out of his mouth.

The pain only lasted a few agonizing and torturous moments before his entire body went numb. He felt himself fall backwards, the blade that belonged to Olly sliding out of him, as his body collided roughly with the ground. Vaguely he heard the sound of footsteps crunching against the snowy ground as they proceeded to walk away, leaving him alone in the cold.

He felt so _cold_.

Arya.

Sansa.

Bran.

Rickon.

Robb.

Catelyn.

Ned.

Ghost.

Ygritte.

Sam.

And so _alone_.

He had no one. No one there as the crimson liquid poured out of his countless wounds, sliding down and leaking onto the cold ground beneath his body. The snow drank the warm liquid eagerly, reddening as he bled. He had no one else, now did he? His parents and brother were dead, Ygritte was dead, his sisters and brothers were somewhere out there - dead or alive, he didn't even know. Sam had left. And Ghost… he only prayed had gotten away, alive and free.

Traitor.

His eyes that already began to dull stared up at the darkening sky while his vision continued to blur. Everything spun around him as coldness gripped at him, sucking the oxygen out of him and slowly suffocating him. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to save himself and not give up… and for fuck's sake he wanted the voices in his head to just _stop_.

 _Traitor_.

 _For the watch._

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

 _Bastard._

 _Traitor._

TRAITOR!

He was soaked in his blood. He had no energy left in him as it gradually drained out of his dying body. He felt himself shutting down, the world painfully fading away and he wondered if this is how the rest of them felt when they died. Did Ned or Catelyn feel this way when death claimed their lives? Did Robb or Ygritte? Did they feel this loneliness that pooled up inside, drowning him?

The light faded from his vision and he felt himself sink into a deep oblivion where he wondered if that was where his loved ones were. He could have sworn he heard the sound of a howl that belonged to his loyal Direwolf somewhere in the nearby distance, the familiar and comforting sound ringing in his ears, but he couldn't be sure.

All he knew was that he was fading and the pain was lessening by the moment. He felt the blood getting stuck in his throat, he felt the air leave his lungs, and he felt everything _still_.

Jon Snow took his final breath and the blood pooled around his lifeless body, somewhat taking the shape of what resembled an old companion, the animal that represented his family's house, an old friend - a Direwolf.


End file.
